


Inappropriate

by Meredydd



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen, Sex Toys, Sexual Content, blase attitudes towards death and the dead, sexidents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:09:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly has seen it all.  And some of it is definitely inappropriate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inappropriate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> Based on a comment discussion on AtlinMerrick's "Somnophilia"... Molly sees death-during-sex cases in her morgue rarely, but they tend to be doozies. Hints of Molly/Lestrade. Just a quick bit of randomness for AtlinMerrick.

It didn't happen very often, but when it did, Molly took an early lunch (or a second one, if it was late enough in the day) and locked down the morgue whilst she considered the situation. The first time, it had been an unfortunate young man dabbling in autoerotic asphyxiation without taking the proper safety precaution of a spotter. She had been flustered, dithered a bit, blushed until her face felt sunburned, and finally asked Doctor Simcox what she should put for cause of death. “Stupidity,” he'd muttered, lumbering off to lock himself in his (now Molly's) office. She'd opted for _death by misadventure_ instead.

The second and third came in together. An odd, rare, mutual, allergic reaction to latex that went anaphylactic. The fourth involved produce. Molly had no idea that was even a _thing_ , much less that pineapple could go _there_ and be lethal. By the time Molly met John Watson, she had seen forty cases of sex-related causes of death, and had begun to seriously consider becoming celibate.

Sherlock and John sailed into her morgue on a sunny (she assumed it was still sunny—who knew, when one was in the morgue all day) Wednesday afternoon, Sherlock shouting about some rare species of eel that was width of vermicelli ( _The pasta, John, not the worm!)_ and long as a man's forearm. Molly froze, one hand hovering over the body bag on her slab. Sherlock had prattled on about the eel, about sensitive mucus membranes, about... Well. Molly wasn't an idiot, no matter what Sherlock claimed. She had a fairly good idea where Mister Lister had encouraged the eel to go, and just what the eel had done while in there. “Oh, for fuck's sake,” she muttered, turning on her heel and stalking towards her office.

“Molly?” John called, uncertainty tinging his voice. “Sherlock,” he hissed, not quiet enough to go unheard by Molly herself, “you embarrassed her!”

Molly shook her head and closed her office door behind her. _No, Mister Lister just killed my sex drive, that's all._

By the time she saw her fiftieth case of sexidental death, Molly didn't even slow down. Sherlock smirked, John shifted uncomfortably, and Detective Inspector Lestrade looked, agape and horrified, at the body of one Patricia Corning. And a rather...impressive...adult novelty. Several, in fact. One in each available orifice. “She was fairly optimistic,” Molly muttered, earning sharp, startled glares from all three men. “Ah, right. Said the loud part quiet and the quiet part loud. Sorry.” She smiled thinly and began detailing the injuries and insults to the body as Sherlock muttered about poison via lubricant, the London 'scene' and something about Anne Summers. John looked everywhere but at the eighteen inch, vibrantly purple dildo as big around as a soda can protruding from...well. Where these things might protrude should one be so inclined. “Molly, I need to see her tongue,” Sherlock demanded. “If it's black, she's been poisoned by the same compound we found in her brother-in-law's flat!”

Molly stared at the green-and-pink monstrosity jammed into Miss Corning's mouth. It was disturbingly life-like, except for the color, and even had attached bollocks, something she thought was fairly superfluous as that was not what most people were focused on whilst engaging in the use of such items. Realizing that there was only one way to remove the offending item, Molly sighed, considered asking them all to leave, but then... _Oh, fuck it._ , Bracing one knee against the table and grasping the dildo with both hands, she wiggled it, jerked it, and finally pulled it free with a wet, sick, _pop_. Wondering if Lestrade was going to be alright—he seemed frozen in place, face drained of color, jaw still dropped—she moved to toss the dildo into the evidence box at the foot of the table. Years of practice made it easy for Molly to move around the three men, her old flare of desire for Sherlock barely a flicker now (a moth could only bash itself against a lamp so many times before it grew tired) and easy to ignore. Soon enough, Sherlock strode from the morgue, trailed by a still flustered John, leaving DI Lestrade to clear his throat and make the attempt to speak, failing each time until, after the third, “Er...um...” he shook his head and headed for the door himself.

“Do you need a copy of the report?” Molly called helpfully.

“Yes!” He winced at his own near-shout. “Er, yes. I just...” He shook his head and risked a glance at the now-covered body. “Do you see this sort of thing often? You...well, you handled it well.”

Molly smiled again, this time a bit more honestly, a bit less exhausted. “She's number fifty.” Glancing down at her open lap top, she frowned. “It used to be much harder,” she admitted. “The one with the sex swing and plate glass window was...unpleasant.”

The DI made a choking sound and Molly felt the smallest of blushes climb her cheeks. “Sorry,” he said, “just...unpleasant seems like it'd be an understatement.”

“If you want more sexident horror stories, make friends with an A&E nurse.” She shuddered, finally deciding on a cause of death and typing it in, hitting 'print' and moving to the printer to wait. “Put me off dating for ages.”

“...ah.”

Molly felt a tiny flicker of interest—had he sounded disappointed? “Well, here you go. Cyanide is present in the lubricant and all signs point to that as the cause of death though, to be honest...” she trailed off and shrugged. “Well, there's a reason that purple one is called The Widowmaker.” Lestrade's sharp laugh made her grin behind her mask. _Maybe,_ she thought, reaching for a paper towel, noticing he still lingered by the door, _it's not exactly a meet-cute to tell my girlfriends but I bet we can score a round of drinks at the pub..._ “Detective Inspector,” she began, then paused. _Oh, effing hell..._ She turned, and he was right next to her. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he smiled. “I'd love to get drinks. So long as we talk about anything other than the Case of the Inappropriate Dildo.”


End file.
